A Line In The Sand
by Antigone2283
Summary: How much is the ex-Templar willing to forgive when his mage companion is forced to make a difficult decision at Redcliffe? Alistair/Fem!Mage PC Spoilers for the Return to Redcliffe quest.


A/N: Some of the dialogue is taken directly from the game, although not necessarily used or placed the same way. This is my first attempt at fanfic, so feedback is MUCH appreciated! Thank you to the Swooping_Is_Bad LJ community for giving me the confidence to post this!

As they built the camp, the group was unusually quiet. Redcliffe was behind them, the Arl still unconscious, his wife dead, but his son spared from a fate worse than death. In and of itself, Firithiel had a vague notion that despite Isolde's sacrifice, there was something to be proud of in what she had accomplished: for the second time in her life, she had faced a demon on its home turf, the Fade, and emerged not only intact, but victorious. And yet, there was no celebration within her, no pride – just a dull, leaden dread. She wasn't ashamed of her choice to allow Isolde and Jowan to proceed with the blood ritual; she had not come to the decision hastily, and it felt as right now as it had then. _She _wasn't ashamed of her choice, but Alistair…

The knight had barely exchanged words with her beyond business since it had happened. In fact, in all their travels together, he had never been so quiet. Even _that_ was tolerable, but the Look, Makers breath, the Look! It was there from the moment she'd come-to, lying on the cold stone floor, the taste of lyrium sharp in her mouth, disoriented and exhausted from the battle in the Fade. She'd opened her eyes and he'd been there, kneeling beside her. For a moment, it had felt as though she were awakening from her Harrowing, staring up into the distrustful eyes of a Templar, being searched for signs of demonic possession. Their eyes had met, and held, and as her disorientation had faded, he had been the first to drop his gaze. And he hadn't looked her in the eye since.

There hadn't been any time to discuss it in Redcliffe, nor privacy for such a delicate matter, and so they had went about preparations for the next leg of the journey in an awkward limbo. The others felt it, Leliana, Zevran, and Morrigan, and responded in kind, keeping their distance, waiting for the two Grey Wardens to sort things the camp was settled, Firithiel found herself on one side of it, conspicuously alone. His approach was unmistakable: he was the only one in camp that wore plate, after all, and he had not yet bothered to shed his gear.

_Not yet bothered, _she thought, _or expecting to need it?_

She rose from her pack and turned to face him before he had a chance to speak. She made it obvious that his armament had not gone unnoticed, as she looked him over from head to toe, lifting her eyes slowly to meet his gaze, questioningly. They were friends, _good_ friends, heading towards something that was _more_ than friends, or so she hoped, but perhaps she had misjudged just how deeply his Templar roots ran. He'd spent a good deal of his life being taught and trained to hunt mages, _blood_ mages, and participation in Jowan's ritual put her dangerously close to the forbidden. For that matter, she had nearly met her fate at Templar hands for much less when she had aided Jowan in his attempted flight from the Circle Tower – only Duncan's intervention had spared her. Where was Alistair's line in the sand, and had she already crossed it?

"I want to talk about what happened. At Redcliffe." Alistair's tone was low and heavy with intent.

Firithiel nodded, and though they both knew what this was about, she responded simply, "Of course. What's on your mind?"

Almost at once, Alistair's handsome features contorted to an expression usually reserved for the people and things they were trying to kill, his anger bubbling up from days of repression. "You let Lady Isolde sacrifice herself! With blood magic!" The words tore from him in a snarl, words dripping with disgust. Across the camp, she could see Leliana and Zevran trying studiously not to look as though they were listening. Morrigan sat on the stump of a rotted tree and stared at the scene outright, her expression unreadable. "How could you do that? I don't understand how you could make that decision!"

It was a loaded question. It was more than just, 'What were you thinking?' It was, 'What does it _mean_ that you, a mage, have the capacity to approve a blood sacrifice? To participate in a blood ritual?'

"It was _her_ choice, Alistair. Not mine. What would _you_ have had us do?" She kept her own temper carefully concealed, though his words did more than chafe. She had never asked to be the one making all the decisions, after all, and he had been there as surely as she had been. He'd done nothing to stop them at the time the choice had been made. It felt vastly unfair to be bearing the brunt of it now, as if the decision had been hers and hers alone to make.

"We could've gone to the Circle of Magi." His voice was accusatory, and almost petulant. His eyes smoldered. If it hadn't been such Serious Business, she would have found herself enjoying seeing the knight's more passionate side.

"And how many days travel would that have been? How many more nights were we willing to give the demon to send wave after wave of undead against the villagers? How many of _them _would _you_ have sacrificed so that your Templar conscience could sleep easier?"

Alistair scowled, undeterred. "We should have tried harder. We should have tried something that didn't involve _blood magic_, that's for sure."

"Is that the Templar, or the Grey Warden talking?"

His scowl deepened. "I don't see how that makes a difference. _Blood_ _magic_," he intoned. "We are talking about the same thing, right? The kind where there's blood, and death, and magic, and _evil?_"

Firithiel closed the distance between them, and though her slight elven frame meant she had to look up at him, there was no element of intimidation as he looked down. She placed a hand over his vambraced forearm. Alistair lifted an eyebrow, questioning and suspicious, but he didn't move away. She spoke so softly that it barely carried the distance between them. "Or the kind that requires someone to, say, ingest blood and lyrium, and take on a darkspawn taint that will be with them the rest of their life? Yes, blood magic. That kind exactly." She gave him a significant look and waited for her words to sink in. She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in surprised understanding.

"That's different…." He protested, and throwing a glance sideward at their companions, he placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her further away from camp until they stood beyond the tents, beyond the fire's glow.

"Is it? Because I thought the whole blood and magic part of the ritual was a dead give-away. But what do I know? I'm just a mage. This whole magic thing is completely new to me."

"It…I…" the knight struggled a moment more, and then let out a heavy breath. "Guh. Fine, the Joining might be a little…blood magic-_y_, blood magic-_esque –_maybe. But the blood involved is creepy darkspawn blood, not the blood of a human being. Not the blood of the woman whose home I grew up in! She was practically my mother! Sure, she wasn't very nice to me, and it was her fault I ended up in the Chantry at all. But her death - I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

"It was _her_ choices that brought her to that fate. Not mine. Alistair, how many deaths are being mourned in Redcliffe because she refused to seek aid?"

"So you're saying she _deserved _it? She deserved to be a human sacrifice?" He stared at the mage incredulously, pulling back and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I think that's debatable." Firithiel replied, a touch of heat creeping into her voice. "What she did was criminal. And for that matter, why are _my_ efforts to _save_ the child being judged more harshly than her efforts to hide the fact that her demon-possessed son had killed an entire castle of full of servants and nobles, as well as half the village? Even Jowan was responsible for fewer deaths."

Alistair eyed her darkly, and for a moment, Firithiel again felt that flutter of fear that she had stepped over the line. She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly, but mostly to hide the fact that her hands had begun to tremble slightly. They stood in pregnant silence, neither looking away.

"Let's…make something clear." She'd never heard Alistair's voice so serious. "Are…we in agreement that blood magic is…._bad_? Because, suddenly, it sounds like one of us might be confused about that."

"I'm not condoning blood magic, Alistair. But I do think this black and white thinking is a bit misplaced for people in our position." She hesitated, her voice growing softer. "I also suspect that… part of your _concern_ in this matter comes from the fact that I'm a mage, and you're responding to this like a Templar**. **You see mage, and you see blood magic, and suddenly you're looking for Abominations where there are none. You trusted me before. You trusted me to make the decision then, or at least, you kept your peace. I did the best I could." The hurt that crept into her voice surprised even her. She swallowed hard. "Don't turn on me, now."

"Turn on you? I'm not…." Alistair shook his head, and after examining her pained expression, exhaled heavily. The fight drained from his stance, arms dropping to his sides. "Maybe I shouldn't be second guessing you like this," he conceded, voice gentled. He drew closer, hesitant, as if he expected her to pull away. She didn't. He slid leather-clad palms down her arms, and cupped her elbows, drawing her closer until their bodies touched. "It's easy to question when you're not the one making the decisions…and I've let you do just that, haven't I? It's just…this is the Arl's wife and son we're talking about here. What do you think he'll say when we revive him? I owe him more than this."

"Hopefully, he'll realize that the situation would have been a lot worse had we not intervened, and that we're not all powerful, or all-knowing. I wish I could have done better, Alistair. I didn't want her to die any more than you did."

The knight sighed heavily, "You did what you had to. It's just…all this death…"

She felt the heaviness in his tone, and it resonated within her. Ostagar, Lothering…Redcliffe had nearly been wiped out. Everywhere they went there were refugees, survivors, victims - all of them waiting for a miracle: the miracle that these two fledgling Grey Wardens were expected to pull off. It was a heavy burden to shoulder. "I understand," she said, and their eyes met, conveying so much more than words could. They stood like that in silence for a moment.

"So does this mean you're not going to go righteous Templar on me for my part in the ritual?" She smiled slightly to soften the question, but there was a chilling sincerity beneath her words that could not be missed.

"Makers breath, did you really think….? That I would….?" Alistair stared, at once aghast and abashed at the answer he found there. "I would never…"

She tilted her head slightly, "Never?"

"Do we have to talk about this? I don't even….I can't…." He stopped, and took up her hands in his, completely engulfing them. "I'm _not_ a Templar, not anymore. I never _wanted_ to be a Templar to begin with. I'm not trying to…to _supervise _you. I'm a Grey Warden. _We're_ Grey Wardens. And beyond that, Firithiel, I…" She saw the knight flush scarlet, a hue that reached all the way to the tips of his flat, human ears. "…you know that I…that you're…This time that we've spent together, believe me when I say that playing the part of the righteous Templar is the farthest thing from my mind." Under his breath, barely audible, he added, "Unless you're into that sort of thing…"

"Pardon?"

"What?"

"It sounded like you said…."

"Was that out-loud? Because it was meant to be an aside…in my head…"

The elf blinked, and one corner of her mouth tugged into a grin. She pulled a hand free from his and reached up to his face, pretending to fix an errant lock of hair. She swept her fingers through the short, golden crop and down the back of his head, where she rested a hand lightly on his neck. "What else is going on inside your head, Alistair?"

"I confess that it's taken a decidedly different direction, all of a sudden…" Alistair's voice had become low, and no trace of his anger remained. He released her other hand and slid both of his around her waist, eyes locked on her. "I'm sorry I've been such an ass…it's sort of a habit of mine…" he murmured, and in answer she tugged on the back of his neck, rising on her toes to bring her lips to his, even as he bent to meet her.

There was a loud 'ahem' from the edge of the camp, and both Wardens' heads snapped around in unison, decidedly guilty expressions on both their faces. Morrigan cleared her throat loudly, standing just at the edge of the fire's light, arms crossed over her chest. She looked unimpressed.

"If you two are done discussing matters of importance, and it appears that you are, it's Alistair's turn to make the meal. And I'm hungry." The witch turned on her heels and strode back towards the fire.

"Speaking of righteous Templar anger…" Alistair grumbled under his breath.

Firithiel grinned, squeezing his hand. "Later. I insist."

He squeezed back, and at last she saw warmth in his eyes. "Your wish is my command."


End file.
